


A Smell of Sulfur

by theladyscribe



Category: Hockey RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, Hockey Witches Email List, Pittsburgh Penguins, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 11:04:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3379175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theladyscribe/pseuds/theladyscribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rob Klinkhammer goes where he's needed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Smell of Sulfur

**Author's Note:**

> A thousand thanks to teshumai for the beta and to thunderwarning for the notes and assistance with protective charms. Thanks also to the denizens of Stickhandled for inspiring and encouraging this story.
> 
> Title is from a line in _The Wizard of Oz_.

Rob Klinkhammer goes where he's needed.

He's had fourteen assignments in the last twelve years. It's more than most of his kind, but they've mostly been easy things, healing bruises, resetting wards, checking fevers, that sort of thing. There's been the occasional embarrassing rash and once a guy turned into a newt, but he generally likes his work and likes that it's allowed him to travel so much. There are a lot of witches who are lifers--the ones that settle in one city and never leave. Rob isn't one of them.

He isn't sure what to expect when he arrives in Pittsburgh, just knows that there have been lots of injuries and more than a few terrible games. He checks in on arrival, reminding the coaches and the staff that he's not a miracle worker and he can't help them if the issue isn't actually magical.

"We know that," says Johnston, not annoyed, "but we have reason to think this falls under your purview."

Rob nods and begins to leave before turning back to say, "I find my work goes best if it's on a need-to-know basis. Is anyone else aware of why I'm here?"

Johnston assures him, "No one outside this room."

*

A week goes by, but Rob hasn't been able to localize the problem. There's a steady hum of unease in CONSOL, but he can't tell if it's a curse or just the result of several weeks of shitty luck. He goes through morning skate with a persistent headache, a constant throb in the back of his head. Rob forces himself to be observant, to note the other players' reactions to the thrum that reverberates through the building. Malkin is moving stiffly, and Letang keeps rolling his shoulders, but it's Crosby who keeps tapping at his own helmet, taking off his gloves to wipe a hand across his cheekbones. Rob watches everyone else, too, but his gaze keeps slipping back to Crosby and the way he seems to be biting back a wince.

As soon as he's able, Rob makes a call to the last witch stationed in Pittsburgh.

"Neal, the fuck did you do with the wards on this place?"

"Hey, Klink, wow, it's so nice to hear from you," Neal answers. He doesn't give Rob time to apologize before saying, "The wards were solid when I left, so if something's gotten past them, it's officially not my problem. Unofficially, those wards were the strongest I could make them without breaking regulation, so you've got yourself in deep shit, man."

"Shit," Rob agrees.

*

The next day, it's officially announced that Crosby is out with the mumps. Rob goes into hyper-vigilance, which is why he notices Beau Bennett sneaking off to the med room after practice. Like any good witch, Rob follows.

What he finds is not what he expects.

Bennett startles in the middle of drawing a protection sigil. He tries to hide the chalked design behind him, but Rob waves a hand as he steps into the room. "Don't bother. I know what you're doing."

"Then you should know that I'm prepared to do whatever I need to to keep you from stopping me."

Rob barely keeps from rolling his eyes at the way Bennett tries to puff out his chest, like that would stop a bad witch from hitting him with everything they've got. He pulls his necklace out of his shirt so Bennett can see the ash tree pendant that marks him as a good witch.

"Not the enemy. I'm trying to figure this out, too."

He eyes the sigil over Bennett's shoulder. "But no wonder you're injured all the time, if you're using that spell. Trying to take on everyone's hurts is just going to keep you on IR."

"I'm just trying to help, but it's not working as well as it used to." Bennett looks a little dejected. "Are you gonna tell the big wigs what I've been up to?"

"I'm not gonna report you," Rob says with a sigh, "but if we're gonna fix this, I need you to follow my instructions, okay?"

Bennett nods. "Whatever you need."

*

The problem is that Rob still doesn't know exactly what they're up against. Neal said he built up the wards as much as he could before he left, but it's been six months, and wards fade over time, especially when there's already something pushing back against them.

He's checked the usual places, the locker rooms, the ice, all of the entrances and exits, the press box. The wards are all still there, if weak, but even that weakness could be simple wear and tear. Rob would be convinced that it's just a long stretch of terrible luck for the Penguins, but there's a slippery, oily feeling as he wanders the hallways of CONSOL, like a malaise that keeps itself just out of reach. It's disconcerting, and Rob worries that this might be more than he and Beau can handle.

He thinks about calling Neal again. Instead, he emails the mailing list.

He regrets this decision immediately.

Within five minutes of sending his query, he has half a dozen responses ranging from rehashing ways to reset the wards to sympathetic but unhelpful "good luck"s. P.K.'s reply is a bilingual treatise on the nature of hockey curses with no actual advice beyond "burn down CONSOL." Rob answers back that he would if he could, but Lemieux would probably kill him if Crosby didn't get him first.

Rob is ready to toss the entire thing as a lost cause and plans to tell Johnston that there's nothing he can do, but the night of the shootout loss to Florida, he gets an email from an address he doesn't recognize. It's from a Russian email client, and he whispers a blessing before he clicks on it.

In the email are detailed instructions for cleansing a stadium and for the strongest wards Rob has ever heard of. There's a warning of after-effects, a caution that the spell acts like a round of anti-biotics flushing out an infection: things might get worse before they get exponentially better.

"You will need friends for this," the email says. "Don't try it alone." The email is only signed with the letter, Ф.

*

As soon as they're back in Pittsburgh, Rob corners Bennett and says, "If you're gonna help with this, I need you to get these for me as soon as possible." He shoves the list of herbs at Bennett, who looks at it, wide-eyed.

" _All_ of this?"

"All of it."

"It might take a few days," Bennett hedges.

"Don't care," Rob answers. "Get it as fast as you can, whatever the cost. You can't afford it, go to Johnston, tell him I sent you."

Bennett nods dazedly. "Okay."

*

It takes them a week to make the arrangements. Rob gets Dana to sew the obsidian and star rubies into everyone's jerseys. He puts together the compound for the protection circle and has enough hyssop to burn but not enough to burn the place down. He doesn't know how Bennett charmed the groundskeepers into planting ferns around the outside of the building in December, but at this point, he doesn't really care.

By some miracle, everything is ready by New Year's Day.

Bennett is supposed to meet him in the parking lot before sunrise, and he shows up on time, with Malkin in tow.

Rob raises an eyebrow. "What's he doing here?"

Bennett shrugs, but Malkin's the one who answers. "Beau say you fix us. I'm help."

Rob considers him for a moment. It's true Malkin has been an unwavering presence the past month, one of the few guys who _hasn't_ suffered any fallout from whatever has been going on. It's both reassuring and a little worrisome; he's still not figured out what is causing the problems, and everyone is a suspect. He looks at Bennett, who's biting his lip, looking nervous.

"I didn't tell him," Bennett says quietly, and Rob swings his gaze back to Malkin.

Malkin draws himself up to his full height so he towers over Rob, an imperious look in his eye. "Fetisov call, say you need help, I say okay. He tell me Beau knows how to do. I call Beau, he say you fix."

"Fetisov?" Rob asks faintly, the Russian email suddenly clicking into place. " _Really_?" He knew the Russians had some heavy-hitters in their ranks; he didn't know that they kept tabs on the American mailing lists. They usually don't interact much, except at the international events.

"We do this or no?" Malkin asks impatiently.

The ritual itself is almost anticlimactic. There's no flashing lights, no sudden gusts of wind, not even a murmur of malevolent noise. Rob is almost disappointed to open his eyes afterward to find he's still holding hands with Bennett and Malkin in the dressing room.

The three of them look at each other, and Malkin mutters an unimpressed, "That all?"

Beau lets out a half-hysterical giggle, which quickly turns into a real laugh. Rob finds himself joining in, the tension behind his eyes easing slowly.

*

Two days later, Rob is called back into Johnston's office.

"I understand you've dealt with the situation?"

"Yes, sir. Anything that can get past what we did on Wednesday would be far beyond my ability to handle."

"You don't think Malkin's fight this morning--"

Rob is quick to shake his head. "A residual effect. There may be a few other instances like that--altercations, random illness, mood swings. They should clear up before the week is out."

Johnston smiles. "I think we can handle that."

Rob turns to leave, but Johnston says, "One more thing. You've been sent a new assignment."

*

Rob Klinkhammer goes where he's needed.

The work in Pittsburgh was complicated, though it took less time than he thought it might. He works his way over the sigils and charms one last time after he packs up his things and says goodbye to the team, trying to imbue goodness and healing into every bit of CONSOL and asking for it in return.

He's going to need it in Edmonton.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are adored.


End file.
